All the World's a Stage
by AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou
Summary: Pre-series. Sam joins a school production of Romeo and Juliet and Dean gets roped in. Gen. Rated T for language.


**Author Note: **This was written for my lovely beta, **mb64**, who requested a fic involving Sam, Dean, and nice!John that had a happy ending. I have tried to stay canon compliant so while John's generally a decent guy who wants his kids to be happy, he's still a neglectful parent. And also, this ending is about as happy as it's gonna get with me.

The usual disclaimer... I don't own Supernatural, they're Kripke's boys. Surprisingly enough, _Romeo and Juliet _isn't mine either. I bet you didn't see that coming.

Mild spoilers for _Something Wicked_ and _Bad Boys_. Major spoiler for the season three finale.

A huge thank you to my beta for this fic, **Maddy77**, who has an utterly awesome fic called _Semper Familia_ which you should all go check out. All mistakes are mine. As always, feedback is hugely appreciated.

* * *

_May 1997_

Dean doesn't get how Sam assimilates so easily. The kid worries himself grey every time they have to move, complaining about how he's always the new kid, the freak without friends. And yet, within days he's immersed himself in some kind of club or another. Whether it's football or science or debating, Sam is guaranteed to end up spending an hour a week after school hanging out with kids his own age, arguing about free will or whatever the fuck it is they debate about.

This leaves Dean to doodle. He can't go home-he needs to take Sam with him in the Impala-but he sure as hell isn't gonna join in with their rants about feminism and the pill. (Sam assures him debating clubs aren't full of angry hippies but Dean isn't convinced.) No thank you. He's quite happy to sit on the main school stage, legs swinging off the edge, letting a pen glide lazily across some scrap paper he's stolen from the history department, drawing cars and guns and the odd penis just to liven things up.

It's a shame he doesn't have any colouring pencils. He could really make his most recent page of doodles into a work of art if he had. There's a rickety house next to a short pier, and in the sea there's a shark tearing a man's leg off. Dean hasn't even been looking as he draws, he'd let the pen trace out the images while his mind wandered around, thinking about that cute girl in his math class who seemed to show no interest in him (though it's beyond him why). It's when he properly takes stock of his drawing that he realises quite how fucked up his subconscious is.

He should probably stop watching films like _Jaws _late at night.

But to be honest, it's not like he has much else to do. Sam's busy with homework-ugh. Homework. Who even does that stuff anymore? The teachers have given up with Dean and Dean's certainly not complaining. Who needs to know about vectors and calculus and the New Deal when you know your future only contains a demon with yellow eyes? But Sam seems to love learning so Dean just leaves him to it. As Dad's normally at the library doing research, Dean's left alone to clean the guns and watch as much late night cable TV as he wants.

Sam comes out of the classroom, his face pulled in a slight frown.

Dean jumps off the stage and saunters over. "Why so serious?" he asks, doing his best Joker impression.

Sam's cheeks twitch a little. "That was actually kinda good," he says with a cough, quickly hurrying on before Dean can gloat. "I thought they were doing the auditions this week but it turns out they're doing them next week. What if we've moved by next week?"

"Relax and untwist your panties a little, will you? Dad said we're gonna be here a while. There's another case only a couple of miles away so he's checking that one out too after he's finished on the poltergeist," Dean starts walking towards the exit, leaving Sam to jog a little to catch up. "'Sides, what's so good about this drama club anyway?"

"The teacher's really nice; she brings cake to most of the sessions."

Dean immediately gets why Sam wants to come to these sessions now. Food's been running kind of low recently-what with Dad so immersed in the hunt he can't go out and hustle pool anymore-so Dean's been trying to cut down their portion sizes. He sometimes skips meals, opting to drink water to fill his empty stomach instead, but he's always made sure Sam's never had to miss out on lunch or dinner. Still, sometimes a couple of slices of toast and half a can of beans just aren't filling enough for a growing fourteen year old.

Sam seems to have noticed the way Dean stiffens. He imagines his guilt is probably written pretty clearly across his face, because the kid carries on quickly, "Plus they're doing Shakespeare this year. Romeo and Juliet."

Dean makes a choked gagging sound. Sam ignores it so Dean does it louder.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah Dean, I heard you the first time. Real mature there."

"Why, Sammy? Why would you willingly give up TV time to act in _that_? What has TV time ever done to you?"

"It's fun to act, and I like the play," says Sam, blushing.

Dean gets why Sam says the first part of that sentence. Sam's always loved acting. Dean figures it's got something to do with being able to forget who you are and just be someone else for a bit. The kid's never been particularly comfortable in his own skin. But it's the second part he doesn't get.

"Isn't it bad enough that you have to read it in class?" asks Dean, genuinely curious as to what would drive someone to want to miss afternoon reruns of _The Avengers_ for this. They reach the car and Dean slides in to drive. The moment his hands are on the steering wheel, he feels at home.

"It's different, acting it out. Romeo and Juliet is a play, it's meant to be acted out, not read in a classroom and dissected."

"Yeah, whatever, Beethoven," Dean mutters, checking over his shoulder before reversing out of the parking lot.

"Dean, Beethoven's classical music. That's a completely different thing," Sam sighs.

"If it ain't Led Zep, I don't care," he declares, sliding in a cassette and turning up the volume until he manages to elicit a groan from Sam. Target achieved, he turns it down a little and sings along raucously, his little brother crossing his arms in exasperation beside him.

* * *

Two weeks later, it's Wednesday afternoon again and Dean's back on the stage, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and a pen. The other side of the page has something about the Civil War on it. Dean's homework from history is on the Civil War, not that he plans to do it. But even then, Dean can't help but consider the fact that if he used as much ink on his assignments as he does for doodling, he might actually get somewhere worthwhile in life. But he stops that train of thought soon enough. It never goes anywhere good and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it anyway.

The stage is getting old, the paint's flaking off the beams and the varnish on the wooden floor has long since worn away. Nevertheless, Dean likes it. It's sturdy and it's always there, ready for Dean to hop on and make himself at home for the duration of an hour or so.

He shuffles back a bit further into the darkness of the black drapes, digging his nails into the ridges in the hardwood floor. His nails have gotten pretty long again. He'll need to cut them off with the knife he sharpened a couple of nights ago. Sparring's not much fun when your nails dig into your palms, especially not now since they've started bare knuckle sparring.

The classroom door opens and all the kids traipse out, walking towards the stage. Dean stands up quickly, part of him wanting to defend his territory while the rest of him reminds him that this is the _drama _group and technically, he's the intruder. He can see Sam's head bobbing up and down. His ears visible again after the haircut Dean's given him in the motel bathroom. Sam had kicked up quite a fuss until Dad had given him one of his trademark glares, after which he'd stayed quiet and let Dean cut it. Dean tried to get it as even as he could but he's no freaking hairdresser. Still, he couldn't have done too bad a job because Sam hasn't complained.

"Dean!" the teacher leading the group calls out to him as he tries to sidle off the stage. Dean turns round to look behind him even though she can't have been speaking to anyone else.

"I'll get outta the way," Dean says, taking the steps off the stage two at a time. Shit, he was getting used to that stage. Time to find a new designated lurking spot.

"Oh no, you can stay in the hall, we just need the stage," the lady says with a smile, making Dean's heart ache for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the soft whisper of 'angels are watching over you'.

Dean shrugs and swallows the lump that's formed in his throat. He goes and sits over where the students have dropped off their bags. Admittedly, he's kind of tempted to root through the bags in search of any leftover food, but Sam's there and so are his friends and Dean's not going to embarrass him in front of them.

The sheet comes out again, along with a half-chewed pen. Dean spends a lot of time gnawing at the plastic, mainly when lessons are boring and breakfast was small. He slumps against the tan-coloured wall and starts sketching a flaming grave, wondering how long it'll take for Dad to finish up the hunts here and for them to move on again.

"You can't step over there, Tom would usually be stood there," he hears the teacher call out. There's a groan from onstage and Dean glances up to see young Romeo's shoulders slump as he shuffles over to the side again.

"Why can't he just come to the rehearsals?" another kid asks. "It's kind of hard to pretend he's here and to try and remember where he would go."

The teacher sighs and lifts her glasses off her eyes to polish them. "I know it's annoying, but there's nothing-" she pauses, her hand stills on the lens. She turns around and squints at Dean in the corner. Dean starts to wonder what he might have done wrong when she resumes. "Dean, why don't you step in for Tom?"

Dean scoffs at that. What, put on tights and prance around onstage? He'd have to go to Hell and back before that happened. "I'm good here, thanks. 'M no good at that acting shit."

In his peripheral vision he can see Sam wince at the cuss, but the teacher seems unperturbed. "I'm sure you're not all that bad. Besides, you'd just need to read the lines and move around onstage a little; no more than that."

"Nah, I don't really _do_ Shakespeare," Dean replies, hating the way her face falls a little as she nods and turns back around.

In the back of his mind, he can hear soft strains of _Hey Jude_.

* * *

Another couple of weeks later, Dean's sat in his corner once again, idly doodling what he imagines a naked Juliet would look like. The actress for Juliet in the play isn't even hot. Dean's stupid drawings are better.

"You're going to have to stab the sword a little further, Sam," the teacher, Mrs Melling, says. Dean looks up at the mention of Sam's name. Onstage, Romeo is looking devastated while Sam attempts to imitate sliding a fake sword under Romeo's arm at someone stood behind him. "Remember, Mercutio will be stood a little behind Romeo."

Dean hates the way the whole class turns to look at him again. Tom's missed four rehearsals in a row now and the kids are starting to get impatient. Dean just shrugs at them and looks back down, trying to get the curve of Juliet's hip right.

He can hear some shuffling and whispering occurring onstage but he doesn't look up. He doesn't want to look into those calm, blue eyes and see the disappointment there. So he keeps drawing, wondering how long it'll take him to do his laps in the training session tomorrow. He forgot to warm up this morning and ended up pulling a muscle halfway through.

There's a hand at his shoulder. Dean looks up to see Sam looking down at him, his expression a mix of _why-do-I-have-to-do-this _and _pretty-pretty-please?_

"Dean, c'mon just help us out here, will you?" Sam grumbles. Dean bites back a grin at how the kid makes even a request sound like a complaint.

"Dude, I ain't joining in with all that 'civil blood makes civil hands unclean' crap."

Sam has started to shake his head at the expectant eyes watching from onstage, but he stops and whirls his head back around to Dean at that. "You've been listening?" His voice perks up and there's a hint of a gloating grin playing across his face.

Dean coughs and tries to cover up his slip. "Like anyone can miss it, you guys have been yelling the lines."

Okay, that's a lie. If anything, a fair few of the actors are too quiet. And they don't emote enough as they speak. Plus they need to work on voice modulation. And their body language as they deliver. And-

He stops that train of thought. He's not the drama teacher here. He knows fuck all about acting.

"Please just read for Tom, please?"

Sam gives him that stupid puppy eyes look that Dean still hasn't figured out how to say no to. Before he knows it, he's stood up, a half-drawn naked Juliet falling to the ground behind him.

"I'm only doing this because you're a whiny little bitch," Dean mutters as he makes his way up the stage steps.

"Whatever, jerk," Sam says, trying to stop his smile from showing.

Dean collects a script from the teacher and gets into position. Sam leans in again and pretends to stab him.

All eyes turn to him.

"What?" Dean glares at them. Is he supposed to be making choking sounds or something now?

"It's your line," Mrs Melling says.

"Oh," Dean looks down at the script, "I am hurt." He looks up again with a snort, "Who the hell feels the need to clarify that? 'Course he's hurt, he's just been stabbed!"

See. This is the exact reason he has no interest in drama.

Sam lets out an exasperated sigh. "Just read the lines, Dean."

"A plague o' both your houses. I am sped." Dean reads in a monotonous voice. "Is he gone, and hath nothing-who even talks like this?" asks Dean, incredulous.

Sam looks like he's about to sigh again, but the teacher simply chuckles. Dean's sure he can smell tomato-rice soup from somewhere in the distance.

"This was written in the 1590s, Dean. They all talked like that back then," she says. "Benvolio, would you like to carry on?"

The rehearsal continues, with Dean merely reading his lines and shifting to wherever he's told to go. He gets to die pretty soon after though, which means he can go back to doodling at the side and watching out of the corner of his eye once more. Sam and Ryan fight with fake swords as Tybalt and Romeo respectively. No matter what Sammy says, he takes a lot from the training sessions they do with their dad. Even though he's scripted to lose, it's clear that he's the far superior fighter out of the two. He's thinks on his feet, he moves quicker, and he plans his attacks better. He's good to the point he's told to tone it down a bit in order to not outshine his fellow thespian so much.

Dean's a little surprised at both the strong pride he feels as he watches his brother fight and at the fact he even knows the word _thespian_.

And they say he's only a pretty face.

* * *

A week later, they come into the motel room to find Dad already there, his right arm curled protectively in front of his chest.

"What have you boys been up to?"

"Uh, football practice," Dean mumbles quickly, before hurrying forward to take a better look at Dad's bleeding hand. "How'd this happen?"

"Damn poltergeist was a quick motherfucker. Burnt me on the way out," he grunts, letting Dean take the hand and start bandaging it in plastic wrap. "Was school okay?"

Dean nods and Sam starts talking about a science experiment that involves putting potassium in water. The burn's not too bad; most of the blood was coming from a small cut a little further up his arm which Dean cleans up with some antiseptic.

Dad's arm's too fucked up to consider going out collecting information about the other hunt. For now, they all settle for watching reruns of M*A*S*H in front of the fuzzy television screen. Dean thinks he's just about figured out how the thing works. He's held magnets up to the screen and he can make all sorts of colours and patterns appear by deflecting the electrons being fired at the screen. He can't help but wonder why they can't teach that in physics rather than pointless things like cathode ray oscilloscopes.

For dinner they head to a nearby diner and order extra-large portions in celebration of a completed hunt. Dean salivates as the quarter-pounder arrives in front of him, his stomach rumbling from too many missed meals. He considers how lacking the life of a vegetarian must be.

There's a gust of wind as a middle-aged woman walks into the diner, her dress billowing out behind her.

"A sail, a sail," Sammy murmurs as she enters. Dean rolls his eyes and whacks his head. Trust the kid to be quoting the play even outside rehearsals.

Nonetheless, as Dean's tucking into his plateful of Heaven, he can't help the small grin tugging at his cheeks.

Maybe Shakespeare was a little funny after all.

* * *

"O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?" Lily calls out melodramatically, swinging her head from side to side in search of her doomed lover.

Mrs Melling sighs and stops her. "Lily, by 'wherefore' she means 'why'. You're not asking where Romeo is, you're asking why Romeo has to be Romeo."

Dean snorts. That's the most bullshit question he's ever heard. Romeo has to be Romeo because otherwise he'd be someone else and the play wouldn't be called Romeo and Juliet. Duh.

But then again, why does Dean have to be Dean? Why couldn't he be John Smith, who goes into school and does his homework and comes home to food on the table? Why does he have to be Dean, who's currently sporting a black eye from last night's attempt to hustle some pool? He's told the teachers it's from a fight and that they should see the other guy and they'd all laughed it off or hadn't cared.

So maybe it's not such a bad question to ask why Romeo is Romeo. After all, he didn't pick to be born in that family or with that name. Maybe if he'd been someone else he might not have had to die at such a young age.

The rehearsal comes to an end soon after the balcony scene and the kids start filing out. Mrs Melling stops Dean with a gentle hand on his shoulder, telling an anxiously hovering Sam to go on and that Dean will catch up.

She then turns Dean around and stares pointedly at his black eye.

"You should see the other guy," Dean starts. "It's fine-"

"Dean," she stops him with one word. He doesn't know what it is about the way she says his name, all soft and tender, that makes him want to cry like a huge freakin' knife-wielding baby. His dad says his name like that sometimes. Normally when he's had a few beers and is on the verge of tipsy but still quite far from drunk. He'll put the bottle down, gesture for him to come over, and then say his name like he's sorry about something.

Dean shrugs the arm off roughly. He isn't gonna cry and he certainly doesn't need sympathy from some two-bit drama teacher who doesn't know the first thing about him. "I gotta go, Mrs M. Sammy will be waiting."

He half expects her to argue, half _wants_ her to grill him 'til he tells the truth. But she just lets go with a nod. And Dean convinces himself he's grateful for that.

Out near the car, Sam's stood kicking stones about.

"You wear those shoes out, I ain't getting you a new pair," Dean says by way of greeting.

"Like you've ever gotten me a new pair, Dean," Sam scowls at him, sliding into the shotgun seat. "You just give me whatever you've grown out of."

Dean slides into the driver's seat and turns to face Sam. He doesn't know why he does it, but he puts the tip of his thumb in between his teeth and grins around the digit. He stops the moment he realises what he's doing.

"You're biting your thumb at me," Sam crows in glee. He's practically jumping on the leather seat, though a pointed glance stops that. "I knew you'd end up liking _Romeo and Juliet_, I knew it!"

"Fine," Dean drawls, pretending to focus on getting the car going and checking his blind spots. "It's not all shit."

It's all Dean's willing to concede, but going by the huge, dimpled grin plastering Sam's face, it's enough.

* * *

"Come, sir, your passado."

The fight between Tybalt and Mercutio begins. Sam and Dean circle the stage, swords in hand, parrying each other's thrusts and swings with expert ease. This is like training all over again, when they're sparring or practising with the knives. It's all to do with how quickly you can move and how well you can plan ahead. There had been a script to the fight but after the first couple of rehearsals, Mrs Melling quickly realised the boys could fight far better than anything she could choreograph. Now she just leaves it up to them to create art onstage.

Dean leans forward with a jab but Sam quickly blocks it and steps to the side. He then swings the sword around to the other side and knocks Dean's sword away, stepping forward quickly with an attack of his own that Dean barely manages to jump out of the way of. He can hear Lily utter a quiet gasp from the side as Sam's sword skims just shy of his arm, at which point Dean twists around and clashes the edge of his sword against Sam's and holds it there. This is the cue for the end of their fight and for Romeo to start speaking.

But before Romeo can speak, Mrs Melling quietly starts to clap from the side. Both boys relax their grips and turn to look at her. The kids sat around her are looking pretty awestruck too. Dean glances behind him to see what they might be staring at; turning back when it hits him it's got to be them.

"That was really quite something, boys," the teacher says, her voice glowing with pride. "I was on the edge of my seat through all of that. Repeat that on performance night and I won't have to worry about a thing."

Sam's grinning back widely at her but all Dean can feel is a deep pit in his stomach.

"I'm, uh, I'm not gonna be there for the final performance," says Dean. It shouldn't hurt so much to say it. It's not like he cares about this shit play anyway. Or these kids. Or this teacher. He doesn't know how he managed to forget he was replaceable.

Mrs Melling tells the rest of the kids to start rehearsing the final scenes while she talks to Dean. As Dean approaches, he notices the way she smells faintly of lavender, a smell he remembers quite vividly from when he was four. He'd tried to pick up the shiny, purple bottle his mother had seemed fond of but instead had only managed to knock it off the dressing table, resulting in an exasperated mom, a laughing dad, and a scent that refused to leave the house for days.

"I spoke to Tom in class today," Mrs Melling says, breaking Dean out of his memory. "He says he won't be able to do the performance. He's part of a choir and they're performing at their local town hall on the same night. He says he's really sorry and he swears he didn't know this would be the case until yesterday. So…"

Dean doesn't reply. He knows where this is heading but he's not sure he likes it.

Mrs Melling continues when she realises she's not going to get anything out of him. "I was wondering if you'd be okay to perform on the night?"

Dean's got half a dozen cocky comebacks lined up for her, most of which start with 'Look, sugar…', but the connection between his brain and his mouth seems to have been severed. All he can do is take in that faint smell of lavender perfume and look into those soft blue eyes and be consumed by the fact someone actually has faith in him.

He failed his mother by spending nearly fourteen years chasing after the thing that killed her and still not being any closer to ganking it.

He failed his father when he disobeyed orders and didn't protect Sam from that shtriga.

Hell, he nearly even failed Sammy when he considered staying behind with Sonny.

But this teacher looks at him like she _knows_ he won't fail him. Like Dean's someone worth trusting.

All Dean can do is nod.

"Great! I knew you wouldn't let me down!"

And that's all the proof Dean needs to see she knows jack squat about him.

* * *

"What have you got there?" asks Dad, peering at the script Sam is trying frantically to hide.

"Nothing-"

"Homework-"

Both brothers speak simultaneously. Dean groans inwardly at the awkwardness.

"Got nothing homework?" says Dad, half-grinning.

"Sam's being a little girl about his English homework, he's whining about how he can't do it. I was trying to help him," Dean tries to salvage the situation quickly before Sam opens his big mouth again.

Dad smiles widely at that. He looks so proud of them Dean feels a little crap for lying to him. Nonetheless, Dad would definitely kill them both and burn their bones if he found out they were skipping out on an hour of training every day for a drama group.

"Okay then, I'm heading out to get some food," says Dad, "Dean, I'm guessing you want a burger?" Dean nods. "And Sam?"

"A fish salad if they have it, chicken if they don't," Sam calls out, his head buried in his school bag, probably looking for his _real_ English homework, the dork. Dean and his dad share a glance of resigned amusement over the kid's eternally bizarre taste in food. Ever since he choked on a slice of tomato that one time while eating a club sandwich, Dean's been convinced that salads are the Devil's work.

Once Dad's gone, Dean flops onto the bed, his arms aching after pumping out seventy press-ups without stopping. He lets his head loll over the side and stares at an upside-down Sam.

"That was the shittest cover ever, you know that?" he drawls lazily. "How're you ever gonna impersonate federal agents if you're this bad making up a story on the spot?"

Sam's head pops up from his bag again, his math textbook in hand. "I'm not going to impersonate a federal agent, Dean. I don't need to be good at lying."

Dean sits up, taking a second to let his head stop spinning before he replies. "Don't start this up again, Sam. How can you consider not doing what we do when you know what's out there?"

Sam perches on the edge of the bed with a sigh. "Why does it have to be our job to save everyone? We could just stop and life would still go on."

"Some lives wouldn't, and that's enough of a reason to keep going."

"Yeah, lives of people we'll never meet again, people who'd think we're crazy if we ever told them what we saved them from," Sam huffs.

The kid has a point. Dean will concede that much to himself even if he won't openly admit it. But that's not enough of a reason to not do their job. No other family should have to go through what they did if it can be prevented.

It seems Sam's not done yet. "I hate the way we have to move every few weeks. I hate how we never have enough money-" Dean's about to protest but Sam sees the argument forming on his lips and barrels on, "And don't say we do, 'cause we don't. I've seen how you skip meals and always give me and Dad bigger portions. We're only having take-out today because Dad managed to get the latest credit card to go through."

The protest dies on Dean's lips and he looks down at the tips of his shoes. He gets it. He gets why Sam wants to leave, he really does. But a tiny, selfish, needy part of him keeps asking over and over again what will be left of him if you take Sam away.

He looks after people. As unmanly as that sounds, that's just kind of his job. He looks after Sam and he looks after Dad. What's he gonna do when they decide he's not needed anymore?

"You were right, by the way," Dean finally says, his voice hoarser than he'd like, "Mrs Melling's cake is all sorts of awesome."

Dean doesn't know if Sam's spotted the change in topic or not but either way, he smiles and nods. "She says she'll make an extra-large one on the day of the performance."

"Guess what else is an extra-large?" Dean can't contain his shit-eating grin.

Sam groans and throws a pillow at him. "Dean, that's sick. Thanks for the image."

"Anytime."

* * *

It's the day of the performance. They need to get back to school for six, the performance itself starts at half past eight. The dress rehearsal went okay apart from when Dean tripped during his big fight and technically got impaled on Sam's sword.

"Dad," Dean calls out from the door, trying to make his voice as casual as possible, "we're off to see if we can, uh, hustle some pool or something. We'll be back late, don't wait up."

Lie? Average. Delivery? Poor. Chance of further questioning? High like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

But that turns out to be wrong, for Dad merely smiles a little to himself and says, "Okay boys, have a good time."

Something seems a little off and Dean can't put his finger on it. A part of him wants to sit in the motel room 'til he figures it out, but Sammy's tugging on his arm and he's got a play to be in, so he lets it go and exits the room.

* * *

Up until now, the performance has gone pretty well. Dean's needed to be prompted a couple of times but he's managed to remember the rest of it okay. That's the weird thing about Shakespeare, he notes, his words stick in your head and roll off your tongue really easily. He might even read a little more of his work someday. Maybe something less romantic and a bit more screwed up, like _Othello _or_ Hamlet_.

He's about pursue the train of thought that questions just when he changed from 'Shakespeare? I'd rather stick a pin under the nail of my big toe and kick a wall' to possibly considering reading _Hamlet_ when he hears his cue and makes his way onstage. It's his last scene, the big fight and the dramatic death.

The lights are harsh and the audience looks infinitely large. Dean can feel the beads of sweat starting to form on his brow and his upper lip. Maybe, if he's lucky, they'll wash away some of the gunk coating his face. He looks out at the audience again and there are so many eyes watching him, expecting him not to fail.

But it's okay, because today no one is going to die if he fails. This isn't the shtirga or the fire or a werewolf. There are no lives at stake here. Dean feels the wooden stage beneath his feet, pleasantly warm from the stage lights that have been shining on it all evening, sturdy in its support. He waits for Benvolio to finish speaking before he starts.

"The fee-simple? O simple!" he calls out, hearing a few chuckles in the audience. He has to admit he kind of likes the way Mercutio just says the first thing that comes into his head.

Sam enters from the left as Tybalt, followed by his cronies. The light dances on the kid's lips and Dean remembers laughing as the actor for Paris, who was also doubling as the make-up artist, insisted Sam wear a tiny bit of lip gloss, much to Sam's horror. His laughing was unfortunately cut short by the artist then grabbing him, shoving him into a chair, and proceeding to turn him into a painted whore as Sam gloated by his side.

The scene continues pretty much as they'd rehearsed it, except maybe it's even better this time 'round. There's a tension zipping across the stage, like an electric spark with nowhere to go, filling the actors with a need to give it their all, to throw themselves into this performance with no thoughts outside this stage and these characters.

In a way, it's a bit like a hunt. Nothing exists but the immediate. All the hours of research, prep, planning, it all builds to this moment. Pieces fall into place and everything comes together to form the final act.

"Come sir, your passado."

Just as always, the final fight is improvised too. Tybalt and Mercutio lock eyes and start to throw tentative thrusts in now and then, testing the opponent's weaknesses, their blind spots. After a couple of quick jabs from Sam, Dean starts to really throw himself into the fight and their swords clash. Just like when they're wrestling, the fight starts as one about strength but quickly becomes about speed and agility. Dean can almost see Sam's mind, his thought process, what his next moves will be, and he tries to attack accordingly. Dean can swear Sam's doing the same back.

Finally, their swords meet and stay together, leading to Romeo to step in and continue the play.

Mere seconds later, the plastic sword hilt fake-pierces Dean's stomach and Dean falls to his knees with a yell of 'I am hurt!' He swears he can hear a couple of the mothers in the audience gasp.

Dean dies a slow, painful death in front of what must be millions of eyes and Sam soon follows. This is what's so stupid about _Romeo and Juliet_. So many people have to die because Romeo wants to get it on with some Capulet chick.

Once they're offstage, Sam and Dean help with scenery and props. They're stage hands under a rather bossy and yet admittedly efficient stage manager, Liz. Dean doesn't really mind, it's mainly menial labour and that's something Dean's good at. Plus, it's kind of fun to be part of a team, to feel needed.

During the longer scenes, Dean and Sam jostle with each other to get a peek between the curtains to see whatever bits of the play they can. The actress for Juliet has grown on Dean. She might not be the hottest girl at this new school, but she's good at projecting her voice and it's easy to get sucked into her performance.

So much so that the stage manager has to drag him away to get him to start shifting the props for the last scene.

The last scene. Nearly two months of lying and hiding and practising lines in secret and it's all nearly over.

Dean feels like he's losing something very visceral with every passing minute. Crazily, he wants to hold onto this school and these students and this teacher and this play. He wants to be part of more productions, to eat more homemade cake. He wants to feel like he's worth something again.

But of course, if the universe couldn't even let him win the lottery, it certainly wasn't going to break the laws of physics and stop time for him. Before he knows it, the audience is bursting into applause and he's gently being pushed onstage by Sam for the bow.

They're all around him. Lily, with her impressive ability to project even the quietest whispers, Romeo, with his whines regarding Tom's absences in rehearsals, Liz, with her stern voice and meticulous stage notes, Sam, with his compelling performance as Tybalt, Mrs Melling, with her soft voice that invariably makes Dean think of angels watching over him. Even the stage, ever-present, warm and accepting like an old friend. It's all here and for once, Dean feels complete.

He looks out over the crowd, a pleasant feeling of solidarity washing through him, glancing from face to face. Until he sees one he recognises.

There, sat near the back wearing the unmistakable leather jacket and a week's worth of scruff, is Dad.

All warmth leaves instantaneously. Dean feels like someone's taken him and thrown him into an ice-cold lake. He can't feel his hands, his feet, any part of him apart from his wildly thumping heart. He's vaguely aware everyone is bowing around him, but he doesn't move until Sam yanks his hand down. Dean stiffly lowers the front of his torso, dreading coming back up to see his father's face again.

He knows. Oh God, he knows.

This is the shtriga all over again. From now on, every time Dad looks at him there's going to be that little bit more disappointment than there was before. And Dean deserves it. He deserves it for the lies and for thinking he could be a part of something so _normal_, so _mundane_ as a school play. He has a job to do and it certainly isn't prancing around onstage quoting Shakespeare.

The actors stand up straight again and soak up the applause. Dean can feel their beaming grins beside him but he can't look anywhere but at the stage, tracing the ridges in the wood with his eyes. The clapping dies down and Dean finds his feet taking him off the stage.

He and Sam have barely stepped off when their dad is in front of them. "Hey, boys."

"D-Dad? What are you doing here?" Sam fumbles with words but Dad's looking at Dean.

"You kids are shit at lying, you know that?" Dean might be mistaken, but it sounds like there's a hint of amusement in his voice. He holds up a battered copy of the script. "I found this under your bed. I didn't think English homework required you to write on exactly when Dean walked onstage and if you exited stage left or right."

Sam blushes and mumbles something that sounds a lot like 'shit'. Dad cracks a small grin at that.

"I thought I'd call the school and ask if there were any football sessions on a Wednesday. Guess what? There wasn't. So I asked about any school productions and you'll never believe it…"

Both Sam and Dean squirm uncomfortably. Dean's sure this has got to be the calm before the storm.

"The school drama group was performing Romeo and Juliet. I bought a ticket so I could see my boys act."

Dean's surprised to hear that. Not that he's had much time to think about it, but he'd kind of assumed Dad had just sneaked in. He hadn't expected him to spend money that was better off being saved for ammo and new guns on coming to see their play.

"How come you came to see the play? Aren't you mad we lied?" asks Sam.

"I'm kind of disappointed you lied," Dad says with a sigh, scrubbing his hand across his face. "Disappointed, but not angry. Besides, I thought this could be good for you." He pauses, that small smile comes back across his face again, "You might be a little better at lying now. There's no way you'll ever be able to pretend to be FBI when you're both working off two different scripts."

Dean's not sure if that was intended as an awful pun or not but he finds himself laughing anyway. Relief floods through him and he hugs his dad. Within seconds, he feels Sam joining them and Dad's arms reach around both of them easily.

Someone jostles past them and the nudge is enough to break them apart before this turns into a bigger chick flick moment than it already is.

"That was some pretty neat acting there though, boys. I'm impressed," says Dad, making both boys glow with pride.

"And you should be," the voice comes from behind him so Dean spins around to see Mrs Melling holding out two large pieces of cake. "Extra sugar in this one, I thought I'd spoil you."

Dean's grin can only be described as ear-splitting because Mrs Melling's cake is honestly so good most pies pale in comparison. He takes the cake with an eager 'thanks' and bites down. He swears he can feel a couple of taste buds die of happiness.

"As I was saying, Mr Winchester, your boys are exceptional," says Mrs Melling. Her voice is soft and feminine and motherly. Dean wonders if Dad can see the similarities too or if maybe it's just him. "You should be proud of them."

"I am, incredibly so."

* * *

Two states and four schools (well, four for Sam, technically two for him seen as Dean dropped out after the second) later, they're driving to Louisiana to look into some bizarre string of deaths, the only connection being that all these people took out a loan in the last couple of months.

It's a nice day, warm and yet not so hot the interior of the Impala starts feeling like a tanning bed. Dean's sat lazing around on the front seat. There's a scrap of paper and a pen in front of him from when he was writing down the address of the last victim as Bobby reeled it off to him.

On instinct, he grabs the pen and paper and goes back to doodling. He hasn't done it in months, not since he was a part of the play. Every time he lifts his pen to try and put it to paper, he remembers her smile and her eyes and that light floral scent and he has to put the pen down again.

But it's been a sufficiently long time now. Her picture's starting to fade from his mind's eye and the play's slowly becoming a distant memory, bits and pieces blurring away like with dreams after you wake up. And it's not so bad. Dean's in the Impala, his brother's in the back seat and his dad's in the front. He picks up the pen and starts to sketch.

"What're you drawing?" asks Dad.

"Nothing, just doodling," Dean grunts, bringing the paper slightly closer to his chest.

"'Kay," says Dad, returning his eyes to the road.

Eleven years later, when Dean's down in the Pit while Sam's stuck on Earth with an eerily empty Impala and a head full of memories, Sam will open the glove compartment and he'll come across an old piece of paper with an address on it. He'll straighten it out, tracing the curly scrawl, the meticulous dots on the i's, the slight flicks on the w's. And then he'll turn it over. And he'll see a clumsy sketch done in ballpoint pen by an amateur hand. Three silhouettes sitting in the Impala, the one at the back has long, shaggy hair, the front two have grown-out crew cuts, one's hair is a darker shade than the other. Three silhouettes looking out onto the endless road together.

In eleven years Sam Winchester will look at this and weep.

But right now, Dean looks down at it and smiles. He might not have a mother. He might not have a home or a future. But that's okay, because his home is here, right beside the people who care about him. And for a little while, that can be enough.

* * *

**Author Note: **To the two guest reviewers, thanks for your lovely comments, it's really appreciated and I'm glad you enjoyed (to paraphrase you) 'having a knife stuck in your feels'.


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